The song turned into a blues, of course, about gray. It also is my personal favorite from our trip:
Clouds don't you blow,
the sky away,
if there's a color I hate,
that color is gray.

When the clouds are dark,
and bump the ground,
old man winter is just,
hanging round.

When the north wind blows
and bites my ears
I find I can't
hold back the tears.

Our singing had another purpose. It was now deer season, and we met the occasional hunter whenever we neared access trails leading in from forest roads. Usually the parties that made it into the backcountry, on horseback, knew which end of the rifle to point upon hearing us sing off-key. It was the 'he men' we worried about. Those that left fires burning right on the trail, threw empty beer cans about, and fancied themselves quick draw artists.

A couple of incidents that made my diary: one greenhorn admonished us for riding up unseen or heard, and saying, "woof." He spun around ready to fire. I don't know who was shaking worse over the possible outcome of this little joke, but just after he said, "Why I almost took a shot at you," No-Name shattered the air with one of his famous rear-end explosions. BJ jumped into this discussion with a, "Yeah, well we shoot back."

Later that day, sharing a meadow (the first time we had done so on this trip) with two fellows who had pitched a decent looking camp, took good care of their horses, and could spin a good story, we scored another touché. They had dropped by for a visit just as I was lighting a candle stub hidden under the wet wood BJ had arranged for a fire. Conversation halted as these hunters watched fascinated as the flames took hold and crackled higher, and higher without any coaxing, huffing, or puffing.